When It Matters Most
by Sentimental Star
Summary: **COMPLETE** It's over. The Final Battle has ended. Harry Potter lays in the hospital wing of Hogwarts, about to wake up. Alone. But a certain Potions Master will not allow that to happen... --PHOENIX SERIES. NO Slash.--


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing in this marvelous universe, it's all product of J.K. Rowling's incredible imagination.

**A/N:** I'm still working on _Near As Your Next Breath_, but it's coming along slowly, so please be patient. At any rate, in order to better fit with this fic, I adjusted a few minor details in _Beginning Again_. I posted those changes so they should be appearing soon. As for right now, I hope you enjoy this fic as much as my last, so please R &R!

**/Personal Thoughts/**

"**Speaking"**

**Second Installment of the Phoenix Series. Prequel to _Beginning Again_.**

**.:When It Matters Most:.**

By Sentimental Star

(Mid-Afternoon, Good Friday)

His body ached and was stiff, but the pale-skinned Potions Master forced himself shakily out of the hospital bed and staggered somewhat haphazardly across the floor of the Hospital Wing. None of the other occupants of the Infirmary looked up from their silent vigils over wounded or comatose family members as he did so. Which was just as well for him. Every single bed in that Hospital Wing was filled and every single bed in that Hospital Wing had people gathered around it. All…except one. Granted, there was a person in it, and currently _the _most famous person to date. True, literally dozens of brightly-wrapped boxes and vases of flowers littered the floor and the nightstands around it. But there were no people. At all.

Harry Potter would wake up alone.

Nearly everyone the seventeen-year-old had cared about was disabled in one way or another. Sirius Black had died two years ago. Remus Lupin was currently in an isolated room off this wing, being treated for silver-poisoning in his blood stream. Minerva McGonagall was one of the Hogwarts staff that had escaped relatively unscathed from the Final Battle and as such, was watching over the students who were only a little injured or not injured at all. All the Weasleys were either at St. Mungo's with the older brothers or here with the two youngest ones. Draco Malfoy was lying on the bed next to the youngest Weasley, where Molly was watching indulgently over them both. Hermione Granger, relatively uninjured as far as the Golden Trio went, sat at her boyfriend-soon-to-be-fiancé's side across the ward. Many of Potter's DA members were here in the Hospital Wing, unable to easily move, or otherwise down with their Houses and other friends. And Albus Dumbledore was otherwise preoccupied with the paper work and the mess the Ministry of Magic had found itself in.

Not that Potter would readily talk to the Headmaster, Severus Snape reflected, summoning a chair over to him as he reached the Gryffindor's bedside and immediately collapsing into it. He hadn't for the past two years. After the elderly wizard's belated revelation of the Prophecy, the young man had come to understand that while Albus Dumbledore truly meant the best, he nonetheless was manipulative and meddlesome. As for "meaning the best," Potter had realized very early on (after being told the Prophecy) that Dumbledore's version of it was what was best for the _wizarding world_. And if that meant using its savior as a weapon, so be it.

Severus sighed quietly and settled himself more comfortably in the chair.

So that left him.

True, it was something akin to hell freezing over, but he could honestly say he had come to care about the unconscious seventeen-year-old in the bed beside him.

He did not know _when_ he had started to care about him, per se, but he did remember the day everything changed. It had actually been after the first Potions class of Potter's sixth year. Astoundingly enough, the young man had managed to gain an O on his Potions O.W.L. and therefore, was admitted into his N.E.W.T. level class.

(Flashback)

Truth be told, the barest hint of grudging respect had flickered in him upon discovering that Potter would be in the class. With all the weight piled on his shoulders fifth year, even before Black's death, the Gryffindor had nonetheless passed his O.W.L.s. Besides that, simply getting into Severus's class was an accomplishment.

He still hated the brat, but the hate had eased just the tiniest bit. Furthermore, the fact that he had seen something so personal in Severus's pensieve, caused the man to act warily towards the student. Still thinking (wrongly) that Potter was exactly like his father, he kept expecting the knowledge of that incident to be circulated ten times over throughout the school. As it was the first day, he assumed that the knowledge simply had not been circulated, yet, and as such, he did the only thing he could think of—he completely ignored the teenager.

Which actually turned out to be advantageous on both sides—Severus himself had less of a headache and Potter's potion had actually turned out to be halfway decent.

Perhaps the fact that he had ignored the Gryffindor encouraged the teenager to take the next step—he still did not know—but whatever had happened, it prompted Potter to stay after everyone else left.

He would not be lying if he said that action alone caused him to feel antsy and uneasy. So he tried to continue ignoring him. Sorting through papers for the new year, cleaning off desk tops, even beginning to write a list of the ingredients he would need for the coming year.

Potter—blast his bullheaded nature—simply waited to be acknowledged.

Five minutes into writing his ingredients list, it no longer worked. Practically demolishing his quill, head jumping up and glaring daggers at the teenager, he barked, "What the hell do you _want_, Potter!"

The bloody boy remained unperturbed. "To apologize," came the quiet response.

The statement floored him. Clenching his jaw, he snarled, "What?"

A weary sigh. "Just as I said, sir. I know you hate me, and I know this probably won't mean a thing," his eyes took on a glint of steel then, "but I'm apologizing just the same. For what it's worth, I'm sorry I looked into your pensieve, I'm sorry my father and godfather were such gits, and I'm sorry for anything else I've done or my parents and their friends have done."

His jaw had unhinged somewhere halfway into that speech, and he was unable to stop staring at the sixteen-year-old when it finished.

Potter did not notice, ducking his head and muttering, "That's all I wanted to say, sir." Then he turned and, scooping up his rucksack, swiftly exited the dungeon classroom.

Two minutes later, Severus was still staring after him.

He did not known how to react at first. The next Potions class rolled around, and still he did not know what to do. So again, he ignored him. Again, the results were the same—less of a headache for him and a halfway decent potion for Potter.

The teenager hovered uncertainly for a few minutes after that second class, but like before, Severus ignored him.

The sixteen-year-old heaved a small sigh when it became apparent the man had no intentions of speaking to him and so, had left. Severus, however, as soon as the student was gone, stopped whatever he was doing and again, gazed after him a moment.

For the better part of a month things continued in this fashion—he would ignore the boy in every class, and after every class, the boy would hover, then leave. By the end of September, he was at his nerves' end. For Merlin's sake the boy had _apologized_, why couldn't he just live with it and move on?

Then Potter fell ill.

Too many nights on the Observation Platform of the Astronomy Tower, too many nights spent alone and sleepless in the chilling winds, was what Minerva told him when he discreetly inquired as to where the teenager was upon the boy's missing this last Potions class.

The day had gone pretty much as it always did and when the time came for Potter's class, he had prepared to ignore the teenager again.

But the sixteen-year-old wasn't there.

He waited, and the teenager did not come. Not at the beginning, not in middle, not even at the end. When he had dismissed the class, he half-expected Potter to show up, but the minutes passed, and the boy did not appear.

Severus had been disturbed to notice that he actually _missed_ Potter's presence, and had been even more disturbed when faint concern coursed through his veins. By dinner, he convinced himself to talk to Minerva.

When he had been advised of Potter's illness, he spent the next several hours wrestling with himself over whether or not he should go up to the Infirmary and—Merlin forbid—check on the young man.

By midnight, he again convinced himself to do something that was against his nature.

So he snuck up to the Hospital Wing.

At that time, Potter's was the only bed filled and Poppy Pomfrey was sleeping. More to his advantage as the last thing he needed was the medi-witch to come bustling in and demand an explanation as to why he was there.

Poppy was one of the few people he cared about at all, true, but, Merlin, that woman could be _scary_.

Assured he would not be pounced upon by the medi-witch, Severus spent another five minutes debating whether he should just stand in the doorway or actually go in.

By the time those five minutes were up, he inched into the ward. It was then he decided that he was just being utterly ridiculous. He was a grown man for Merlin's sake!

So he strode purposefully into the Hospital Wing, step silent, and glided over to the teenager's medical bed.

What he saw, he did not expect.

Although scrawny for a sixteen-year-old, Potter had always seemed larger than life. Yet now, unconscious and not needing to put up such a front, he looked like nothing more than a small child. Merlin's Beard, a _child_—it did not matter whose.

The force of that realization sent him to his knees next to the medical bed.

Overwhelmed, he surveyed the youthful features of the student on the pallet. Two red spots on an unnaturally pale face indicated a fever not yet through. The slight form underneath the sheets shifted restlessly and every few minutes a rasping cough sliced through the quiet of the Hospital Wing. Severus winced at the dry rattle it created in the young wizard's chest.

/Pneumonia/ his mind supplied. Almost of its own volition, one of the Potions Master's hands hesitantly reached out and rested itself on the boy's forehead. Heat radiated off the teenager.

"You never do something like this halfway, do you, Potter?" he muttered under his breath. Shaking his head, he lightly stroked the Gryffindor's burning forehead.

Of course, he did not expect Potter's soft keen or the way the teenager leaned into the gesture—asleep as he was.

Alarmed, Severus shot to his feet and, yanking his hand away, practically fled the Hospital Wing. He caught himself just before slamming the door shut behind him.

Quickly, but trying not to disturb either the teenager or the nurse within, he closed it. And there he leaned, shaking slightly with two hands clapped over his mouth and obsidian eyes wide. His heart still had not ceased its rapid beating.

What in the seven hells was _wrong_ with him?

It…it hurt, seeing Potter like that. Potter was not some saint or some weapon, he was only a boy! And that boy in there did not look anywhere _near_ ready to face Voldemort.

(End Flashback)

With a quiet sigh, Severus came back to himself. Once again he was in the Hospital Wing, and once again, he found himself by an unconscious Harry's bed. The child he had seen that night last year was no longer so young, no longer so small, yet, a child he was nonetheless.

Reaching towards the young man's face without hesitation now, he thought/And you _still_ weren't ready to face Voldemort, were you/ He snorted lightly to himself, stroking back Harry's shoulder-length dark hair. /I wonder if you really ever were./

Like and unlike that night two Octobers ago, today the teenager leaned into the gesture and made a small sound of contentment. A deep breath then, and Severus froze as he realized his student was trying to wake up.

Only, he was not quite awake, yet. A soft sound of protest caused the Potions Professor's hand to start moving again.

Gingerly leaning close, he urged quietly, "Come on, Potter. Up. Time to greet those rabid admirers of yours."

A low groan which turned into a hacking cough and the teenager's eyelids fluttered. "Merlin (cough, cough) forbid," he managed to force out.

A startled, albeit delighted, chuckle, and Severus exclaimed quietly, "Well, good afternoon to you, Mr. Potter!" He continued to stroke Harry's hair back, wordlessly urging him further awake.

The Gryffindor's eyelids fluttered again. Once. Twice. And then those emerald eyes cracked open, peering up warmly at the man leaning over their owner, "I-It…_was_ you," the teenager stated, voice cracking slightly, although whether from emotion or disuse, neither could tell. Perhaps it was both.

A crooked, somewhat bemused smile. "Of course."

Harry shook his head, gently pulling the Head of Slytherin's hand off his forehead and holding it tightly between his own two. "N-Not just today, but that night…th-the one at the beginning of October my sixth year."

Severus stirred uneasily in his place. "Yes, Mr. Potter," he looked a bit uncomfortable with that admission.

Harry shook his head again and smiled, opening his eyes fully. Rapidly, he blinked them to get used to the brightness of the Hospital Wing. "I honestly don't mind, Professor." His grin turned shy. "After all, my first class back you asked me to stay after to help you brew some Potions. You had never done that before." His gaze suddenly sharpened with concern. "You're all right, aren't you? I saw that last curse. You--"

Severus gently interrupted him by placing the fingers of his free hand to the teenager's lips. "I am fine, Harry. Nothing a few days in the Hospital Wing won't fix."

The seventeen-year-old released a relieved breath. "I'm glad."

Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the front of his Professor's robes, dropping the older wizard's hand and fisting his own two in the familiar fabric. Severus grunted in surprise as he was nearly pulled out of his chair and closer to his student.

"I'm _so_ glad," Harry repeated thickly, resting his forehead against the Potions Master's chest.

It was Severus's turn to shake his head again, lightly. "Clingy today, aren't we," he muttered, but in direct contradiction to his words eased his still stiff body onto the hospital bed. Gently, he held Harry in place with a hand on the back of his head and the other in the middle of the teenager's back.

A few minutes passed before the younger wizard spoke again, "He's gone, isn't he? Voldemort?"

They had already been through this, but Severus merely tightened his hold on the seventeen-year-old Man-Who-Saved-Us-All and replied softly, "Yes, Harry, he's gone."

And they were silent for the rest of the afternoon.

**The Beginning**


End file.
